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fortheloveoffanfic · 5 years

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Not You

John Wick x Reader. Requested. (A/n- Worry not, there will be a second part. It was supposed to be a oneshot, but I got carried away and it got long. Welp)

Now..... Things were quickly fading to black. The pain in her chest had begun to subside replaced with a coldness that rendered Y/n a shivering mess. Hovering over her, there seemed to be three Johns, but she knew that only one was real.

He cupped her face, breathing heavily, worry pooled in his chocolate gaze. She loved his eyes, though, Y/n couldn’t remember if she had ever told him that. Above all though, she loved him. “John,” she wheezed his name quietly, feeling a metallic tinge taint her tongue. Thick, red warmth leaked out of her mouth in a thin, persistent dribble, running down her paled cheek as she fought to speak, clinging to the thin thread of life, “I love-”

“No,” John swallowed thickly, “Don’t say it. Not like it’s your last time, please. Please,” he begged, “Just hold on, for me.”

1 hour earlier..... The job was going south. Fast. Their target, unbeknownst to them, had been tipped off and had, at the very last minute, doubled his security. What should have been a quick, in and out job, turned into a killing spree. It should have been no more than a dozen low ranking gang members, with more brawn than skills but, it had somehow turned into triple that amount of extremely specialized fighters who were being too well paid to go down without a fight.

Under normal circumstances, the usual combination of John and Y/n’s skills should have been more than enough to get them through it. But without warning and proper preparation, living through it would be a generous reach.

Every time John and Y/n thought that they had made headway, they were disappointed with more guards seeping out of unseen crevices.

About two hours into the job, they were still on the ground floor of the nondescript warehouse on the edge of the city, struggling with about seven or eight bulky guards.

John held one in a low choke hold as he swiftly delivered three shots to the one in front of him; two to the chest and one to the head. Without hesitation, he did something similar to the one under his arm, moving on to the next one that came at him.

About five feet away, Y/n struggled between two men more than twice her size. One held her off the ground, stumbling back when the back of her head made bone cracking contact with his nose while the other made a futile attempt to subdue her. Y/n’s arms were pinned to her sides, but her feet kicked wildly, bloodying the man’s face and eventually shoving him to the ground. Before John could point his gun at her captor, Y/n had elbowed him a gut, distracting him enough to shoot him in the thigh. The minute he released her, Y/n ended them both, sizing up the rest of their opponents.

Her muscles were already sore from being over worked, there was blood in her left eye and her lungs burned, but still, without complaint, Y/n pushed forward. Shooting who she couldn’t stab and stabbing who she couldn’t shoot. John was nearby, doing the same with the kind of effortless grace that had been one of the reasons she had fallen for him. Of course, it was among, many, many other things. Though, the middle of a fight hardly was hardly the time to marvel on the greatness of one’s significant other.

She had just taken out two more, and John another three. They were still dealing with the remnants of the last wave when more descended the stairs, tucked a the darkened corners of the building. She was so tired. But there wasn’t room for tire, even if it could constitute life threatening mistakes.

Hulking men swarmed around Y/n, probably deciding that she would be easier to take out first. As she shot at the one directly off to her left, another tackled her from the right and as she struggled beneath him, Y/n managed to drive a knife hidden in her waist, right up his chest. She thought he was dead and hadn’t bother to waste three bullets on him.

Shoving him off her, Y/n pushed herself up, trying to blink the redness out of her eyes, brushing messy hair out of her face. Then she heard it, the loud grunt from John’s side and her head snapped up. There he was, caught in a hand to hand struggle of one of what seemed to be the last. His gun laid a few feet away, taunting, as if to say, “I could save your husband, but I won’t.”

In a rare moment where her passion over ruled her better judgement, Y/n clumsily lined up a hurried shot, sending a bullet square in the back of the man’s head. Immediately, he slummed to the floor with John shaking out of his grip just in time to not go down with him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,“ he breathed, surveying their surrounding to ensure that they were truly done. It seemed so. “Thanks,” he half smiled. As quickly as it graced his handsome features, before John had even thought to retrieve his gun and Y/n had reloaded hers, John’s smile faded and he shouted, “Y/n, look out!”

It happened before he could push her out of the way and the world seemed to slow down. She turned, her hair whipping dramatically and a sound of surprise fell of her lips as she jerked back when a lone bullet hit her low in her chest, between her heart and her stomach. The man was still impaled with her knife and his stance seemed wavering but as Y/n hit the floor with a soft thud, John scrambled for his gun, ending him with a couple hasty shots.

By the time he had rushed to her side, Y/n was already laying in a pool of blood.

Now.... John cradled Y/n’s head in one of his large hands, the other pressed firmly to the wound in the middle of her chest. Blood leaked though his touch, warm against his palms, insistently reminding him that Y/’s life was, quiet literally slipping through his fingers. Her breaths were short and erratic and Y/n’s eyes were wide. “Just hold on okay. It’s not that bad, we’ll get you help and- and you’ll be okay. I promise, you’ll be okay.”

Y/n’s blinking slowed and she was finding it hard to keep her eyes open at all. It hurt at first, like hell, but as she lost more blood the pain faded out and she was over come with an overwhelming need to just fall asleep. When she tried to speak, a fit of wet, ragged coughs racked her body and John shushed her, silently assessing her wound.

It was one bullet, but he didn’t think there was an exit wound, she was shivering and life was draining from her face. When she opened her mouth again, blood leaked through the sides of her lips, which could be the consequence of nothing minor. This was really, really bad. The Continental's doctor might not have been much help to Y/n, she needed a hospital. “John,” his name a sickly wheeze that brought stinging emotion to his eyes. He couldn’t lose her. “I love-”

“No,” he stopped her, gathering her up in his arms, cradling Y/n close to his chest, “Don’t say it. Not like it’s your last time, please. Please, “John pleaded, slow tears running down his face. He couldn't believe that he might lose her like that. After everything, it had come down to a couple miscalculations and he could lose the woman who had brought light back to his life. “Just hold on, for me.”

As John stood, holding Y/n against his chest, he blinked back more tears. Memories danced across his mind; the last time he had held Y/n like that, was just after they had come back from their honeymoon, two weeks in Fiji.

(Flashback) ”I can’t believe you’re finally my wife, Mrs. Wick,” he laughed, Lifting Y/n off the ground. Her arms went around his neck, her lips pressed to the scruff on his jaw.

“Well start trying cause you’re stuck with me. I’m in this for the long haul,” Y/n laughed as John carried her through their front door. They had been living together for a while before they got married, but something about being married made it all seem more official.

As he set her to the floor, Y/n lingered in the circle of his strong arms and he kissed her deeply before correcting, “We’re in this for the long haul.”

Y/n clung to John, smiling broadly, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Neither would I.”

Their current situation was a painful contrast to his memory as John jogged with Y/n to the car. She hadn’t said anything for a while but he could still hear her soft labored breath. He had wanted to talk to her, just to keep her conscious but John didn’t think he was capable of speaking without breaking down.

Gently, he placed her in the passenger seat, reclining it and then got in on the driver side. “John?” Y/n breathed, all the shivering and blood loss.

“Yeah?” He glanced her way, blood covered hands tightly gripping the wheel, his foot heavy on the gas pedal.

“Did you finish it?” Y/n suppressed a fit of coughs, as she clutched the one inch hole in her chest.

John shook his head, turning onto a busy road, easily swerving through traffic, “Fuck the job,” he spat plainly, “We have to get you to the hospital.” Y/n didn’t respond immediately, her breathing visibly slowing as her eyes slipped closed, head slumping. “Hey,” John reached over, tapping her thigh, lifting his hand to shake her shoulder when she didn’t move, “None of that, okay? We almost there, just a few more minutes.”

“I’m tired,” she mumbled, her eyes only barely opening. Her hand slipped from the lower part of her chest, falling to her side, “I don’t......it’s so cold,” she breathed.

“I know. You can go to sleep, but not yet. Not until we get to the hospital,” which was still a good twenty minutes away, John didn’t know if she had that. In her seat, Y/n was slipping into unconsciousness. John kept his hand on her, shaking her shoulder and she mumbled incoherently, “ Y/n, listen,” he racked his brain, trying to find something that would get her talking, “Do you remember how me met?”

Y/n hummed quietly, a faint smile curving her lips, “Yeah,” she breathed.

“Great! Why don’t you tell me the story. Here, I’ll help you,” John encouraged eagerly, “It was in Spain? Do you remember?”

“Mhm,” Y/n fought to keep her eyes open, trying to get the words out, “And, um, we were on the same contract. The ambassador. You thought I was his girlfriend,” she tried to laugh.

“But I offered to buy you a drink anyway,” John chuckled quietly. It was just two years ago, but it felt like they had lived a lifetime together since then. They had fallen in love, started a life together. Killed together and even for each other.

(Flashback) Somewhere on a beach in Barcelona.... John sat at the bar, wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, sipping the same drink for the past hour. His eyes were discreetly trained on the ambassador to Spain, sitting at a table on the restaurant's patio, overlooking the water. The contract was supposedly exclusive, open to only a couple others beside himself. John didn’t know who they were, he didn’t care either. He would be out of Spain, twenty million dollars richer before they could even line their shot up.

The man, his name was of little importance and above ground politics never served John much interest, sat on one side of a roped off table, guarded by to men wearing dark shades. He probably could have shot him right there, he was close enough, but John had preferred to wait for a more.....private moment.

That was when he saw her, walking towards the table, escorted by another member of the security detail. She wore a navy blue dress that cut off early to show of smooth, sun kissed legs. The young woman, who suddenly had most of John’s attention, bent to peck the ambassador near the corner of his lips, his hand secured low on her back. Her identity was hidden by a wide brimmed hat and a pair of dark tinted stylish sunglasses. John didn’t know her but he wanted to.

They sat with their chairs pulled close together, his hand on her bare thigh, speaking quietly as they ate. When they were finished and presumably when the check was cleared, the ambassador kissed her quickly and left with his security detail. For a while, she sat by herself, then eventually got up, approaching the bar with a leisurely sway of her hips. At the bar, the woman sat a couple stools away from him, removing her shades and hat before looking over the drink menu. She was far more beautiful than he could have ever anticipated.

John had not actively pursued woman in years, but something about this one was drawing him in. The confidence in her walk, her quiet grace, her beauty- something. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat, looking her way.

As she turned, one of her eyebrows were raised and she seemed to be assessing his worth, “Yes?” She smiled, determining that he might deserve a chance.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked, mirroring her smile.

“Maybe, if you tell me your name your name first.”

“John,” he offered his calloused hand.

She took it, shaking firmly, “Y/n.”

As it turned out, she had already known his name, one could hardly be an active part of the criminal underworld without at least hearing the name John Wick. Y/n however, had been train by the same people who had trained him, though a couple decades later. His name and stories of his work were spoken in whispers around the Ruska Roma. What she had heard had intrigued her, meeting him was something entirely different.

“Your barged in right when I was about to shoot him. No silencer and you made a mess on the sheets.” Y/n swallowed thickly, grimacing at the taste of blood, wincing in pain when she tried to shift in the seat, “You’re such a brute.”

“You fell in love this brute,” he smiled, glancing her way as he skillfully turned into the hospital’s compound.

“Well.....” Y/n’s eyes slipped closed, “You’re.....” She didn’t finish and her head finally slumped down, limbs limp and face alarmingly pale.

He couldn’t hear her breathing and a new wave of immeasurable worry swelled in John’s chest. No, he couldn’t be too late, they were already at the hospital. She couldn’t just die, not like his. Haphazardly, he swung into a spot near the entrance of the emergency room, stumbling out to get to Y/n’s side. “Y/n?” He shook her shoulders, the blood flow from the gun shot had significantly slowed and he couldn’t find a pulse. “Please,” he begged, for the first time audibly crying, “Just.....I can’t lose you. Please Y/n, not you.”

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whumpiary · 5 years

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[update: this drabble used to be two posts but has since been edited to be one coherent piece!]

content warning: referenced past drugging, implied/discussed drug abuse, paranoid thoughts.

Cass is sitting in J’s bedroom, trying to sleep despite the daylight creeping in through the blinds. He’d been confused at first when Josiah had shepherded him in and peeled the sheets back from the bed. When he hadn’t moved to lie down Josiah had said that he needed to put the house back together and Cass needed sleep and that neither would happen if Cass was lying on the couch. Cass felt a pang of guilt through his fog and hadn’t argued. He’d done enough arguing today.

He’s not sure if he sleeps but he’s certainly awake when there’s a gentle knock on the door, followed by a man with long blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard letting himself him. Whatever Cass was expecting when Josiah said his friend was a doctor, this is not it.

“Hey there,” he says with an easy smile “Wasn’t sure you’d be awake”

Cass tenses, sitting up against the headboard and trying to look less vulnerable, less weak. He hates doctors. Hates them even more when they’re so casual. Trying to act like your friend. They weren’t friends.

“I take it you’re Mal,” he grunts.

“I take it your Cassius”

“Cass”

“Cass. Right,” Mal corrects. He’s got a relaxed grip on eye contact, holding Cass’ gaze a few seconds longer than should’ve been comfortable. There’s something vaguely familiar about the way this man hold his gaze and it settles in Cass’ gut with a rocking sort of unease. Despite himself, Cass looks away.

Mal sets his bag down on the desk with a thud. It’s one of those old leather ones that border on the line between outdated and cool depending on who’s carrying it. Cass rolls his eyes. Wanker.

“How’re you feeling, Cass?”

“What, what do you think?” Cass spits. The other man doesn’t miss a beat.

“I literally do not know, mate. I met you about thirty seconds ago.”

Mal sits down on the chair by the desk, a careful distance from Cass, and begins rolling up the sleeves of his henley, revealing a litany of old-school tattoos that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Sailor Jerry’s bottle.

“What?” Mal asks, smiling at Cass’ obvious stare. “Did Josiah fail to mention my rugged good looks?”

J had, in fact, failed to mention his doctor-friend’s rugged good looks. He’d failed to mention anything at all about Mal, actually. Cass had half expected a half-dead, half-deaf 67 year old racist who’d scribble a prescription for Valium without looking at him and head off again. Instead he was staring at a 30-something Adonis who looked like he oughta be on the cover of an alternative home-goods magazine selling kombucha.

“You just don’t, don’t really look like a, like a doctor.”

Mal nods like he’s used to that assesment.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m technically a nurse.”

Cass coughs a laugh, “It, it, it does, actually.”

“Thought it might,” he says, smile dancing back on his face “Now. Josiah said you took something?”

Any amount of warming Cass had been feeling toward Mal turned ice cold in an instant.

“I didn’t take shit.”

Mal shrugs, “Alright, well did someone else give you something?”

Cass’ head jerks up and he squints at Mal, trying to figure out the trick.

“You believe, believe me?“

"Well are you lying?”

“No.”

“Then I believe you,” Mal says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He puts on a pair of blue-rimmed glasses, smiles like this is the only thing he’d prefer to do right now.

Cass stares at him. Right. Definitely not what he was expecting.

“So. If you didn’t take anything, did someone else give you something? Josiah, maybe?”

Cass’ heart falters and his eyes flit to the door. This is a trick. A trap. They’re tricking him into saying something against J so he can be thrown out or hurt or- he takes a deep breath and stops that particular train of thought. It was stupid. It was Josi- J - for God’s sake. And Cass’d named him, anyway, made him tell the truth. He knew J hadn’t given him anything.

He looks back at Mal, suspicious all over again. Why would he plant a thought like that?

“Wouldn’t he… wouldn’t he have told, told you if he gave me something?”

“Well, see, Josiah knows I’m not a huge fan of roofies, so I doubt it,” Mal says, rolling the desk chair closer. “Alright if I take your blood pressure?”

Cass nods blankly and shoves the sleeve of his shirt up to his shoulder, offers his arm.

“Do you, you, you think he gave me something?” he asks.

“Seems a little out of character but you’re the one that knows what’s going on here, so I figured I’d ask,” Mal straps the blood pressure cuff around Cass’ upper arm “This might be a little uncomfortable, but it’ll just be a minute.”

They’re silent for a moment as Mal pumps air into the tourniquet. He’s right, it is uncomfortable. Maybe not in the way that Mal thinks. The cuff tightens slowly with each pump, cutting the blood circulation in a way that feels far too much like a rough hand gripping too tight. What did you think was gonna happen, Ace?

Cass takes a deep breath, tries to remind himself where he is, who he’s with. “Is Mal short for, short for something?“

“Unfortunately, yes,” says Mal and smiles as he makes quick eye contact. “Malory.”

Hipster with a medical degree. ‘Course his name is Malory.

The cuff constricts a little more and so does Cass’ chest. What did you think was gonna happen, Ace? Deep breath.

“It’s not that bad,” he shrugs.

“It is when you’re middle name is Valerie.”

Cass snorts a laugh. He doesn’t care if it’s true or not. The distraction is welcome.

The fact Mal’s not actually touching him helps. The tattoos even more so.

Classic American sailor tattoos, thick dark outlines coloured with red and yellow, a little blue. Sparrows, an anchor, a swashbuckling lady, a dagger, a heart. Then the less conventional ones. An astronaut, a small cat, an umbrella, a tea cup. Cass’ eyes catch on a trio of roses on Mal’s left arm, warped slightly. Or rather, the skin is. Bubbled scar tissue sits uneven under the ink, spreading neatly along his inner arm, starting at the wrist, stopping before the crease of the elbow. You’d barely notice it if you weren’t this close. Cass leans a little closer.

“You admiring the artwork or the scar?” Mal asks in an even tone, his attention on the blood pressure gage. Cass pulls back away, quickly, cheeks burning hot with the shame of being caught staring.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind. It’s a good scar,” he says removing the cuff. Cass flexes his fingers as blood rushes back into them in a hot flush. Mal rolls his chair back to dig something else out of the bag. “It’s from when they cut me open to hardwire in this here biometric, fully automated, life-like mechanical hand”

Mal flexes his fingers, as if to show off the dexterity of each digit. Cass stares. Mal’s face splits in a stupid grin.

“I’m kidding,” he assures quickly “Hand’s real. It’s the foot that’s fake” And he knocks on his shin, the full thud of hollow plastic helping pitch the punchline.

Cass frowns, looks back down at the bed sheets. He feels like an idiot for nearly falling for it. But he’s tired and he doesn’t feel right and wasn’t this asshole meant to be helping? Not just fucking around? He feels even more like an idiot because everything Mal does makes him feel small and young and stupid. Like some kid, doe-eyed and staring, about to be tricked by Dad jokes and an easy smile.

“That’s a stupid, a stupid joke,” Cass mumbles. Like a fucking kid. God. There’s something about Mal that Cass can’t place, can’t pick and it keeps sending him off-kilter. Something familiar-but-not that he doesn’t want to think about.

“Yeah I know. Bad habit,” Mal is picking something else out of the bag now. “He holds up a stethoscope. “Give your chest a listen?”

“Do I have to take, take my shirt off?”

“Yeah,” Mal says with a deep sigh, apology etched into his face. “Unfortunately, while medical science has advanced far enough for me to hear through several inches of muscle, blood, and bone, we have not yet cracked the ability to also hear through a thin stretch of cotton, so…”

He gestures with his hand. There’s a beat. Cass remains thoroughly unimpressed. Mal sighs again, with another smile.

"Yeah I know, stupid joke. Leave your shirt on. I’ll get you to lean forward though, if you can”

Cass obliges silently. He fucking hates this guy, he decides. He hates the jokes and the hair and the tattoos and the one fucking foot. The painfully ‘not your average doctor’ vibe of him.

Complete wanker.

“I know, know what you’re doing,” he spits after a few moments of quiet. The other man hums an acknowledgement, moving the stethoscope to his back “With the, the, the jokes and the stories. Tryna be friend- be friendly. Just tryna get me, get me more comfortable so I’ll tell, I’ll tell you shit”

Mal sits back, taking the stethoscope from out of his ears. He’s got an impassive sort of look on his face that’s kind of annoying. “Is it working?”

“No. You’re not my, not my friend.”

“I’m not trying to be, mate, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on,” Mal holds his gaze as he says it. Piercing and ice blue, Cass is overcome with a feeling that he’s being looked into, gently inspected. That he doesn’t need to tell Mal anything. He already knows.

There’s a fear that grips Cass for a moment. J wouldn’t send a reader in without telling him, right? His eyes flit to the warped skin on Mal’s wrist. Hiding a mark?

Then the moments gone. Snapped in two like glass as Mal breaks his gaze to throw the stethoscope back in the bag.

“The stammer normal for you?” he asks, suddenly.

Cass blinks. “The what?”

“The stammer. You keep repeating, keep repeating yourself every few, every few words, like this, like this,” Mal demonstrates. The not-a-mechanical hand turns in the rhythm of his voice, like a conductor keeping time for an orchestra “That how you usually talk or is it new?”

Cass frowns, tries to think about how he’s been talking.

“Uhh… new, it’s new I guess,” he says. Mal hums low, produces a small pen light.

“Follow this with your eyes,” he says “What about the tremor? That new too?”

The flip between conversation and consultation is dizzying, but Cass does his best to oblige. There’s a faint feeling of nervous dread creeping over him. Something’s wrong.

“Um, it… It happens when I’m, when I’m, when I’m tired. Or when I’m stressed, stressed I guess. Been pretty norm, pretty normal for a while,” he says. He’s overly aware of the tripping of his tongue, now, embarrassment and frustration eating at him with every word he snags on.

“Push through’d do it too, I guess?” Mal asks, pocketing the light again.

Cass stares at him, gaping a little.

“You know, push through?” Mal tries again “When you’re spent but you keep using your-”

“I know what, know what push through means,” Cass snaps.

The other man puts his hands up in a hasty surrender. “I didn’t mean anything by it, mate.”

“I’m not your mate.”

Cass knows exactly what push through means. If he spent too much time in someone’s head, if he named too many people one after the other, he’d start to feel the tug of it. Tingling in the hands and feet, faint ache in the chest or the head. But a blood rush, your heart pulsing with something other than blood. Like you could do anything.

So then you’d push through, keep going. Full splitting headache, churning stomach, dizziness, aching joints. But your brain felt electric, so much bigger and faster and you could see so much more than anyone else. So many connections and vibrations.

So you push through, go a bit further, just a little more. Breathlessness, slamming heart, bones like glass, thoughts like fog. And it’s burning now, a little, but the spark is still just in reach. So you push through.

Just a little further, knowing you’ll get it back if you just keep reaching. Memory loss, delirium, pain like your body was going to kill you. Or floating, unhooked, free.

Cass knew what fucking push through was. Intimately. The question was how the fuck did Mal?

"Josiah didn’t give me anything,” Cass says suddenly. It feels like a confession. Mal doesn’t say anything. “There was... The... The, the, the people I was, people I was staying with. I think they, they… I think…”

“Do you know what it was they gave you?” Mal asks gently. He does everything so fucking gently. Cass squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.

“I don’t even, even know for sure that they, they, they did,” he admits. His voice isn’t shaking. It’s not. “I’d just… wake up and I would feel, would feel wrong. Like I’d gone on a bend, a bender or something”

“Like a hangover?”

“More like withdrawal. Then push through on top.”

“Is that why you took the oxy? It felt like withdrawal?”

“It wasn’t an oxy, just a-” Cass stops abruptly, biting down on his tongue. Idiot. “I thought you said you believed me.”

“I thought you said you didn’t take anything.”

Mal’s eyes glint. This isn’t right. What did you think was gonna happen, Ace?

Cass can feel his breath ducking shallow in his chest and he hastens to control it, shove it down, stave off the black spots that are suddenly flickering in his vision.

This isn’t right. He leans forward where he sits, gripping the edge of the sheet. He barely has anything in him but he needs to get this guy away because something isn’t right, none of this is right.

He barely has enough in him but he has enough: “Mᴀʟᴏʀʏ, ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ”

But Mal doesn’t flinch, doesn’t change his face, doesn’t move to go. He just tilts his head slowly, looks Cass in the eye. His voice is so gentle when he speaks.

“That one’s not gonna work on me, mate.”

Cass feels his heart miss a beat, like skipping a step on the stairs, foot sliding through free fall. He thinks about bolting, but Mal is blocking the door. He thinks about trying to name him again but he has nothing left, he was nothing left and it doesn’t matter because it didn’t fucking work.

“I knew, knew it. I fuck, fucking knew it,” he spits. He tries to lean forward, but the dizziness hits him too fast and he sits back “You’re a reader, aren’t, aren’t, aren’t you?”

Mal laughs softly like the accusation is surprising.

“No, not quite,” he says, quietly.

“Well what are, what are you, then?”

“I’m honestly just a nurse, mate,” Mal leans back in his chair, pushing that long mane back with one hand “And, unfortunately for you, Josiah’s friend.”

He almost looks sad. Cass isn’t fucking falling for it.

“I don’t believe you.”

Mal shrugs, taking his glasses off, “You don’t have to.”

There’s a long moment between them, quiet and still. It’s so silent that Cass can feel the air around them pulsing. Maybe that’s why the yell from the other room is so loud. Something like a crash. More yelling. An argument, a fight. Mal, who has been seemingly unphased the entire time Cass has been talking to him, suddenly seems very, very phased.

Someone is here. Someone has J.

Cass is moving before he has time to register the pain that swoops in at the rush in his head.

“Who’s, who’s here? What’s happening?”

Mal tries to stand in front of him but Cass is already pushing passed. He can barely feel the juttering of his legs. Mal grabs for his arm-

“Everything’s fine, it’s jus-”

Cass doesn’t notice way his heart is suddenly not beating but fluttering, surging, buzzing. He shoves Mal backwards, reaching for the door.

“Everything’s not fine, fuckhead. Who, who did you bring here? What, what what have you done to Josiah?”

Cass doesn’t notice that his lungs are straining to grab oxygen, straining to do anything other than squeeze mercilessly.

“Nothing, mate. Cass, you need to-”

Cass doesn’t notice the blood rush in his ears, drowning out Mal’s words.

He opens the bedroom door, prepared to see anything; prepared to see a bloodbath, prepared to see a gun to Josiah’s head, to see an armed fucking militia. Prepared to see them. The them he’s running from, the them he should know better than to have run towards, the them who could find him and drag him back, and drag Josiah along too if they wanted to.

But that’s not what he sees.

He sees Josiah, standing with his back to the hallway, completely fine. Angry, sure, but when wasn’t Josiah angry? His voice is still echoing sharp across the room but his body language is open and loose. He almost looks relaxed. Comfortable in a way Cass hasn’t seen him since coming back. He’s fine.

And then he sees her. Small and leather-clad and familiar and furious.

Oh.

Cass feels the fear fall off him like a cloak, which maybe was stupid considering who he’s looking at. He wishes he hadn’t opened the damn door.

Lou.

“I assume you’ve met my wife?” Mal says from behind him.

Right. Fuck.

And then.

And then Cass realises someone’s squeezed all the breath from his chest, and that his legs are shaking so hard they shouldn’t be holding him up and that his heart has somehow turned into a wasp’s nest, and that his brain is a brick of dynamite about to explode.

Cass looks at the woman in front of him, looks at Josiah, looks at Mal.

Lou. Here. Right.

Fuck.

And then he faints.

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a-sprinkle-of-geeky · 4 years

Text

12 Hours (Part Six - End)

Welcome. Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four. Part Five

This story contains blood, murder and quite a bit of violent angst.

This particular part contains extreme injuries yet recovery, please be cautious if you are sensitive to these subjects.

Levi had expected this to be the end, preparing himself to be shot or thrown off of a bridge. He was an unconscious heap and his thoughts were foggy, his body unable to wake yet his mind alert. He thought about Sage and JoJo, Lucas and Clyde and anyone else he was going to let down.

He was prepared to accept the fact that he was going to die for nothing.

Levi took a controlled breath, the first one since he had been drugged, and groaned as the drug slowly began to unleash his mind from its grasp. He coughed and clenched his eyes, his body tingling with pins and needles.

He wasn’t at the bottom of a river, at least.

It took him a minute before he felt conscious enough to move and began by spreading out his fingers, tracing the rough ground of a pavement and immediately forced his eyes open. There he saw dark blurs illuminated by orange streetlights, the silhouettes of the nightly figures passing by.

Levi pressed his hand to his face to ensure that his glasses were still there, yet cursed when he found them vacant, and he pushed himself up onto his elbows to try and locate them. Levi groped the ground and touched something different than the familiar shape of his glasses, gazing down as he picked it up and squinted. Though it was a messy blur, it was unmistakable. It was the jar containing Clyde’s soul.

He let out a short cry and clutched it to his chest, sitting up and feeling his knee press into his glasses. Levi grabbed them clumsily and put them back on, glad to see clearly despite there being a crack in the left lens. He looked at the soul and breathed out, thankful that its surface was intact and, most importantly, unharmed.

Levi raised his head and looked around, immediately recognising where he was. He was a block away from the facility, he could see the towering building in the distance. He saw two passers by who looked concerned at him but hurried along, not wishing to speak to the man clutching a soul and hadn’t seen a bed or a shower in three days.

He staggered up to his feet, stumbling against the wall as the drug still lingered in his body. He breathed heavily and pressed the jar close to himself, the pain in his chest becoming apparent in his laboured breaths. Still, Levi didn’t give up. He didn’t care anymore. He was getting this soul back to Clyde, even if it meant he collapsed.

The doctor began running, a limp in his step and his face full of his last, dying determination.

Clyde’s surgery could not legally continue without his soul.

The past three days had been constant surgery and tests on his fragile body but at least now they had managed to mend his knee and properly treat his spine. Lucas was absolutely broken by now, breaking down into his bandaged hands and crying his apologies for hours on end. Yet Clyde just kept looking at the light mindlessly, the heart monitor signalling his only sign of sentience.

The law had a rule that any Husks that had not had their soul returned within a week would have to be put to sleep, since they knew that it was only torture to the person who experienced it.

Lucas’ mind was breaking as each day passed yet there was no hope in tracking the soul, Levi or the murderous couple. All of them were completely off the grid and he did not know what to do other than cry and drink away his sorrows.

As Lucas’ mind swirled, so did his anger. Every moment he saw the love of his life wounded like this was only making his desire to slaughter those maniacs even greater. They were going to pay for their actions and he would get them off of this planet, even if it killed him. He was sick to death of their abuse and tyranny over the city. They had committed so much crime that people were terrified to leave their homes, they had shot Tyrell through the chest and he was only just starting to properly heal, they had killed three of his men and had most likely done the same to Levi.

He had been missing in action for three days now and the inability to track him was driving Sage to a breakdown. He had called Levi hundreds of times, refused to sleep, ran patrols whenever he could and sent out countless search parties just to try and track his husband. No amount of reasoning or reassurance could reach him and it was clear he wasn’t going to stop until he knew where Levi was. He panicked endlessly about his safety, his lack of medication or proper physical care for his body and broke down into tears at the thought of him being trapped somewhere with no help. They were all lost and their hope was depleting.

The only one who had the slightest bit of hope was Daniel, who was still close to giving up but only holding on because Tyrell had woken up and was able to start speaking again.

“Do you need anything?” Dan asked for the third time this hour, interlocking his fingers with him.

“No, no... I’m alright,” Ty said quietly, contently gazing into his eyes, “You should sleep, darling...”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Dan admitted fearfully, reaching out and stroking his cheek, “I’m too scared.”

“I told you, I’m alright...” He assured him gently, leaning into his hand and kissing his palm. He looked at the bed and, with effort, managed to moved himself to the side.

“D-Don’t move, Ty, you’ll hurt yourself,” Dan stood up anxiously, hovering his hand over the bandaged would, “What’s the matter? Do you need me to get Dr Eren?”

“No..” Ty replied, holding his hand securely, “You can get in the bed with me...so I can stay with you whilst you sleep.”

“I don’t want to dislodge any of your IVs-” He tried to protest but Ty gently pulled him down and he couldn’t resist it. He needed a hug so badly...

He snuggled under Ty’s arm and slid his hand under his back, looking up at him tearfully. The scarred demon smiled softly and wrapped his arm around him, just managing to kiss his head and keep his arm in a position that would not disrupt any of the wires connected to his skin. Dan hugged his stomach and gently nestled his head on his shoulder, curling up and tangling his legs with Ty’s as he closed his eyes and listened to his heartbeat whilst Ty lovingly stroked his hair.

“Just sleep, babe, you’ve been awake long enough...” He murmured soothingly, closing his own eyes and listening to Dan gradually start to slip asleep. Just before they could, however, a yell startles them awake as Sage stormed past outside.

“Sage, calm down!” Lydia warned him.

“No! No, I will not be calm!” He cried, “Levi is out there and no one else is trying to help him! Clyde was found in less than a day but when it is Levi you all just deem him to be dead!”

“Clyde was different, we had evidence to track him,” She raised her hands to try and settle him, “We’re doing everything we can to find him, you need to calm down.”

“I don’t need to do anything but find my husband,” He insisted, “Just let me go on another patrol!”

“We’ve been on ten in the last few days, what makes you think that this one will bring any evidence?”

“I need to try!” Sage said, clutching his hair, “He could be trapped somewhere and be unable to talk o-or call out! He could have been wounded by Zyren or Flin, you saw what they do to doctors!”

Ty tensed up, holding his chest and pulled Dan, who was breathing quickly, closer to himself to try and calm him down.

“I know you’re upset, Sage, just please listen to me,” Lydia said, “Just lower your voice, you’re upsetting the patients...”

Sage gazed over at them and covered his face, letting out a frustrated cry before breaking for the elevator with Lydia running after him.

He collapsed against the wall and looked at the ascending elevator, repeatedly pressing the button in desperation and shifting on his feet with impatience. Why was the elevator taking so long?

Sage was just about to run for the stairs when the doors pulled back and revealed a shocking sight.

It was Levi. He was standing there in dirty clothing with a determined expression but endless pain and exhaustion in his worn features. He was clutching something to his chest and his glasses were cracked. When he saw Sage he did a double take.

Sage gasped at the sight of him and cried out his name whilst Levi did the same. Levi staggered into his arms and Sage picked him up, clinging to him as tightly as he could without hurting him.

“Levi!” He wept, “I was so scared! I was so scared!”

“Oh thank god, Levi-” Lydia breathed out, “We’re so glad you’re okay.”

“Le-Levi, I’m- I’m- so glad you’re...I thought...” Sage stammered, holding his hand against Levi’s hair, “Oh fuck, what happened to you? Where were you!? I was so worried!”

Levi held him tightly. He wanted to just let his legs give way and stay in his arms forever, but he had one last thing to do before he could let himself rest. It took effort, but he reluctantly pulled away with a dreary voice. “I need Clyde,” He looked around, “I need to get to him, what ward is he in?”

“Levi...” Sage tried to hold onto him but the doctor was already stumbling off. He looked at Lydia with worry and followed after him with her at his side.

Lydia glanced at Levi’s hand as he rushed around the corner and her eyes widened. “Holy shit, he’s got Clyde’s soul!”

Clyde’s mother, Marie, was weeping into her hands whilst his father, Otto, tried to console her with tears running down his own cheeks. They were initially deployed overseas on military business but rushed back as soon as they could when they received a phone call of what had happened. They were two German military workers with Marie as the lead nurse in first aid and Otto as the lead General, they were confident and collected in their profession but when it came down to their only child getting hurt, it shattered them to pieces.

Eren tried to warn them of the extent of their son’s injuries but Otto pushed past him. Lucas had never seen Otto show such horror and pain before and his chest burned with guilt and he held his hand.

“My baby...” Marie sobbed when she saw him, running her hand through his hair and resting her forehead on his before collapsing on the chair and covering her face.

“Who did this to him?” Otto asked, anger in his tone.

“Flinar and Zyren,” Lucas replied coldly, his chin rested against Clyde’s loose fingers, “I am going to kill them for what they’ve done.”

“What... what the person said over the phone about him being...” She couldn’t say it but Lucas’ ears lowered, immediately knowing what she was referring to, “Please tell me it isn’t true...”

He looked away tearfully and she only wailed more, having to be pulled into Otto’s arms so she could sob. Otto was shaking.

“I’ll kill them with my bare hands,” He stated shakily with fury, “I’ll put them through exactly what they did to him but ten times worse!”

“My baby boy... they were so cruel!” Marie sobbed, “He didn’t do anything to deserve treatment like this!”

“I will do everything in my power to make sure he is safe and happy...” Lucas said, trying not to break down himself, “I’ll-”

He was cut off by someone bursting inside the ward, making them flinch in surprise when a very dishevelled Levi staggered inside and held up a jar containing Clyde’s soul. Lucas sprung up to his feet in an instant and caught Levi before he could fall, yet the doctor pulled away and grabbed the bed railings with a heavy stumble.

“Where were you, Levi?” Lucas asked in shock, “How did you get it back?!”

“Just fucking shut up,” Levi wheezed, Sage putting his arm around his waist. He pulled the lid off the top and let the soul drift outward into his palm, its surface flickering. Clyde’s eyes finally drifted from the light and rested on his soul, making a weak whimper as his hand tried to reach out for it.

Levi pulled away once more and leaned over him, turning his hand over and pressing the mint coloured orb against Clyde’s chest, watching as his chest glowed a soft turquoise and feeling the soul sink into his being. The wounded doctor took a deep, sentient breath as the colour soaked back into his eyes and returned some colour to his cheeks.

He rolled his head and opened his eyes as much as he could, seeing Levi standing over him and watching him in pained confusion as he broke down and smiled. “You fucking idiot,” Levi choked out, but he was smiling, “You better appreciate being alive, don’t you ever scare us like that again.”

Clyde was too dizzy to comprehend what he said, it sounded like his head was underwater.. there was so much going on.

He reached into his pocket and set something on the foot of his bed before his mind clouded over and he found himself collapsing backwards into Sage’s arms and falling unconscious. Sage caught him and picked him up, worriedly shaking him but Lydia put her arm around him as Lucas stood there dumbfounded on what to do.

“Let’s get him patched up,” She said, guiding him out of the ward to the office.

Marie was holding Clyde’s cheek in her hand and running her thumb under his bruised eye whilst Otto held his other hand.

“..mami...” He croaked, trying his best to lean into her hand, “It hurts...”

“I know, Seerose, I know,” She whispered, “We’re going to take good care of you, we’ll make you better.”

Clyde tried to sit up but let out a cry of pain and Lucas panicked, lying him down again as he looked at him.

“Oh god, Clyde... I’m so sorry,” Lucas said. He had so much he wanted to apologise for. He wanted to collapse to his knees and sob for hours whilst begging him to forgive his foolishness. He wanted to say so much but he knew now wasn’t the time, he knew he needed the most support right now. “You’re safe now, they’re never going to hurt you again, I promise.”

He gazed down at his fingers and then at the foot of the bed where he saw Levi place something. It was glinting in the light above. His wedding ring. He let out a desperate whine for it and Lucas turned towards where he was looking, retrieving it and gently shushing him. He slipped it onto his finger and kissed his forehead.

“Thought...lost it,” He whispered in relief, looking down at it but still wanting to cry... it made him feel better but his pain would not stop.

Clyde was overwhelmed with emotions and pain, he could not move and he could not feel his leg. He whimpered, gripping Lucas’ hand as tight as he could, he needed support more than ever. Especially when he twitched his leg, which made the colour drain from his face when he realised.

The memories flooded back and he struggled for breath, forcing his arms despite the pain and pulling off the sheets.

“Clyde, don’t look-” Otto tried but he couldn’t stop the inevitable truth and he clenched his fist around the bed’s support handles. He pressed his lips together.

Clyde stared in disbelief. Up until now he had hoped it was all bad dream, a nightmare that took too long to end and was all but over. But it was all true. His right leg was in a brace and his left one... was gone.

“Leg...” He got out, the ventilator forcing him to take deep breaths which drugged his dizzy mind, “My leg...”

“Baby... it is okay, you’re gonna be okay...” Lucas stroked his hair but Clyde wasn’t in the condition to be reassured. He stared wide eyed and pressed his sore head into the pillow, crying out as Marie stroked his cheek.

Clyde finally broke down, letting out all of his trauma in broken, hoarse wails whilst his family comforted him all the while.

Several months had gone by since the incident. It was difficult for everyone at first since Clyde needed so much treatment, which made him incredibly guilty and upset. It was a long road before he was allowed home.

He was taken out in a wheelchair by Lucas, who was so supportive and loving despite Clyde worrying that he was too much of a burden. Otto and Marie followed at his sides as they took him home for the first time, greeted by their children and Tyrell, who was still in psychical therapy but looked happier than ever. Dan was also slowly improving from the mental stress he was put under and managed a few smiles and hugs where he could.

Lucas was determined to kill Flinar and Zyren once and for all and was just about to leave on his mission that night when Clyde took his sleeve and quietly begged him not to. He had a pained expression talking about them but despite everything they had done, he still believed that they could have a chance to improve. Lucas gave in, unable to protest against his sweetheart and took off his armour to spend the night watching a movie in bed despite Clyde falling asleep on him only a quarter way through. As for Flinar and Zyren, there was no criminal reports from them at all, whether it was because of Flinar’s injury or something else, he didn’t know, but Levi refused to tell anyone what had happened whilst he was gone.

For two months Clyde was practically bed bound, merely watching the world go by from his bedroom window when he wasn’t being taken back to the facility for endless amounts of treatment, surgery and therapy. He was dead silent for most of it, flinching at anything that moved too quickly and panicking whenever he could see the basement or any kind of mechanical tool. He was self conscious, hiding away in bed and not smiling at all since his missing tooth made him incredibly embarrassed. Clyde felt like a burden to the entire family, feeling ashamed of his continuous nightmares which made him sleep with the light on and hug Lucas’ arm whilst he slept.

He was clingy to his family members, getting frightened when he was left on his own for too long so, to help ease his worries, they gave him a plush rabbit which helped improve the fear, especially when Shadow - Clyde’s cat - came to console him. After that things gradually began to improve.

He would eat his entire dinner and make conversation, giving loving kisses and hugs to all of his family members when they got close to him. He and Dan would sit in the living room together and give each other manicures, watch movies all day or just eat take away food and talk. The therapy with Levi was finally starting to pay off and the physio with Sage started to improve his overall health, especially when the prosthetic came in to play.

It was a long process getting him to adjust, with many tears, falls and meltdowns but Lucas remembered watching Clyde successfully walk down the walkway for the first time with absolutely no support. He waited at the other end tearfully and held out his arms. Clyde had wobbled and paused twice but he eventually reached his husband and grasped his hands, kissing him. Lucas had looked at his face and held it in his hands, telling him over and over how proud he was and then Clyde smiled for the first time in months.

He had a new, fake tooth fitted into his mouth but even then he hadn’t smiled until now. He was grinning and holding Lucas’ hands in his own, his cheeks tinted pink and his eyes shining. It was the most beautiful thing Lucas had ever seen.

((The End))

This was super messy and definitely rushed but I really wanted to get this done! Despite it all, it was still fun to spill this lore into a story and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Thank you for reading. See you later! <3

#story #oc story #oc #oc writing #writing #a sprinkle of geeky #please don't judge me i'm just a writer #geekyfox1 #angst writing #oc angst

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astarlitsunflower · 5 years

Note

I loved your ptsd fic! The way you write Harrisco, being so soft with each other! Also it’s such a nice concept, of Cisco describing the bedroom to Harry for him to snap out of it. I really liked it! And can I request fic as well? Maybe Cicada sees Harry and thinks he’s Eobard and tries to kill him/ hurts him really bad and Cisco just trying to protect and rescue his bf?

Matty you are so sweet and kind I love your blog and your energy sm ✨✨✨✨✨❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

{i am SO SORRY this took so long}

Cisco sighed out and shifted, putting one foot up on the dash as the other rested next to lock of the passenger side door; his back was against Harry’s arm, and his head was dropped back on the top of his shoulder. Downgraded to lookout wasn’t fun, his dumb-dumb being with him made it tolerable, though. “Do we need anything from the store?”

“I ate the last bagel this morning.” Harry said casually, fighting his smile.

Cisco groaned loud, lifting his head to drop it back on Harry’s shoulder. “How? How is that possible? Every time, somehow, every time I buy them you get the last one.”

“What can I say, Ramon?” Harry closed the file he was reading through, SparkNotes on Cicada, making his voice serious “There’s something about this earth….’s bagels, that I’m drawn to, it has to be my Earth-2 vibra-”

He was cut off by Cisco pushing his head to the side, laughing infectious as he sat up and pushed his hair behind his ear. “This is unbelievable,” He laughed, rolling his eyes before looking at Harry again. “I’ll get bagels, anything else?”

Harry shook his head, dropping the file on the dashboard. “Nothing I can think of right now.” He rubbed his hands together before blowing on them. “I am, however, in need of coffee. Want one?” Harry sat up a bit more, pulling the handle so the door cracks open and turns the lights on.

“Yeah, actually. You know how I like it, I’m gonna stay out here, maybe Dwyer will finally try a visit.” Cisco nodded, shifting to be a little more comfortable in the car, stretching his back out.

Harry learned to kiss his head before heading out, rubbing his hands as he walked towards the entrance of the hospital, looking to his boots and putting his trust in his black cap.

Cisco watched the entrance as best he can, flicking through different cameras in the hospital on his tablet, scanning for Dwyer’s face. He swipes away look-a-likes and too-blurry pictures, occasionally glancing up to see if Harry’s making his way back with the coffee yet. His phone screams first, followed by the tablet flashing red. He pulled the alert up on the table, finding a location as he jammed a com device in his ear, immediately connecting to the yelling at S.T.A.R.

“I have it! I have the location!” Cisco yelled over the mix of voices, pulling the pinpoint up on tablet, panicking for a second too long before opening the drivers door, abandoning the van and tablet. “Hospital, he’s at the hospital. Near the back.”

“I’m on my-“

“Why?!” Cisco stopped himself short, hiding behind a bend, whispering sharply. “He gets your speed in that dagger, or XS’ speed, or Elongated Man’s elasticity, then it’s Devoe. All over again. Just….Just have Killer Frost nearby.” Cisco exhaled sharp, trying to get his head in order before peeking over the corner.

Harry lay on his side, coughing hard into the pavement before moving to push himself up, trying to get his feet under him. “I promise you, I’m not-“

“Doctor Wells…”

“That’s the one.” Harry coughs again, moving to stand and put his hands up, his chin dripping some blood from a cut on his lip. “I know, I know what you’re thinking.”

“You started this.” Cicada’s voice made Cisco shiver, his hands tingle, and his anger build. Cicada advances a step, making his dagger glow as a threat. “I’ve read about you. These Metas….they never existed until that night….You lost your legs…I read that you disappeared…some even said you died.” He tilts his head, as if surveying Harry, standing there.

“Mi….Miracle Max’s?” Harry kept his hands up, half- shrugging with an attempt to smile.

Cicada raised his dagger, and Cisco started to run.

He couldn’t make out what happened, but Harry grunted then yelled and was on the ground by the time Cisco jumped and tackled Cicada from behind, the two rolling on the pavement and the dagger skidding off. Cisco moves fast, not even thinking of the dagger, wanting nothing more than to defend Harry. He tackled Cicada again, slamming him back on the pavement as he started swinging wildly. He landed a few good punches before Cicada used his height to gain the upper hand.

Cicada grabbed Cisco by his clothes, lifting and throwing him to hit the wall of the hospital building, Cisco’s yell as he arched to relieve the pain in his back was low. He watched Cicada get up, go over to Harry who was holding his leg while laying on the ground, and in an easy movement, pressed his boot to the spot Harry’s hands had been covering. Harry’s howl snapped Cisco back to reality.

“You’re wrong. You have it wrong.” Harry shook his head, looking up at Cicada. “I didn’t do any of this, I can promise you that.”

“You have caused the death….of parents….to a very young girl.” He raised Harry up, holding the collar of his coat and sweater, his other raised like it weighed heavy.

Harry took the first punch as best he could before something kicked in, he fought back, dodging the punches as best he can grunting and taking hits as he tried to land his own. His knuckles hurt against the mask and he did his best to grab and pull it. He wriggled his feet up and kicked Cicada hard square in the chest, knocking him back and hearing his mask work double-time to assist.

Cisco moved to his feet at that, moving and tackling Cicada down by using his weight against him. His hands hurt, and his back stung, but he fought and wrestled and scrambled before taking an elbow to the forehead. He tripped back, a hand on his head, the cut from the hit starting to bleed, as Cicada put his hand to the side, palm open for the dagger to enter.

Cicada turned back to Harry one he closed his fingers around it.

Cisco thought he hated the sound of that mask before, but it scraped and chewed and tore at his already hurting brain as four Harry’s stood defenseless, and three Cicada’s swirled around taking his steps towards Harry. He shook his head to get his vision back, blinking past the blur and fuzz, he almost missed it; faintly, it reminded him of his powers.

Cicada grabbed Harry lifting him up and holding the dagger to his chest, pushing through and watching him wince and fight his screams. He watched and held, pushing it deeper the more Harry held it in, when it could hold up on it’s own, Cicada pulled his hand off.

“He has. A. DAUGHTER!” Cisco shouts, one hand still on his head, standing on both feet, though not too well. ”Please.” His other hand raises, a surrender in a way. “She’s gorgeous, and young, and bright as a whip. And you, are a monster. But you care about family. Don’t take hers away.”

Cicada drops Harry, the dagger still sticking out. “This time…Not. Again.” With that Cicada’s off, dagger pulling from Harry to follow, quick as he came.

“Help, Help!” Cisco ran forward, dropping to Harry, pulling him up, compressing the wound. “Barry!” Before he could swallow his sob, he found himself standing in a clean bright room, eyesight focusing on Iris’ expression before looking around.

“Hey, hey…We’re going to let them work, come on.” Iris rubbed his back, walking him out of the room to drop in a chair. He followed effortlessly. “Just breathe, you’re in the labs again, okay?” Iris moved to pull on gloves, Nora at her side to help. “Caitlin and Barry are working on Harry, we’re going to patch you up, ‘kay?” She said, rubbing his arm before starting on him.

Her and Nora made small talk, something about she learned this on Caitlin. Cisco tuned them out, not registering that they were even working on him; his mind on four different earths without once touching the remainder of his powers. He stood straight up when Caitlin came in the room, pulling her gloves off and smiling.

“He needs some serious rest, which is a coincidence, because so do you.” She nodded, watching Cisco. “He’s going to be okay, Cisco.”

Cisco nodded, whispering his thanks before moving past her, patting Barry’s shoulder and walking to the room.

“Ooh, you wear that alleyway much better than I do.” Harry half smiled, clearing his throat.

Cisco shook his head, but smiled just faintly, tapping his own shoulder. “We match, but mine’s the back. Your’s the front.”

“Story of our relationship.”

Cisco snorted, looking down and putting a hand over his mouth, “Don’t do that.” He looked up, his eyes welling. “Not tonight, Okay?”

Harry nodded, instant, reaching his hand out. “Come on, let’s follow the doctor’s orders for once.” He moved careful, grabbing the bottom of the bed next to him to pull it closer, “We’ll share, let’s rest.”

With no energy to fight, Cisco nodded and climbed into his bed, getting as close to Harry as he could.

#i'm also sorry if there's spelling mistakes #and you can literally always request whatever your heart desires matty youre an angel #harrisco #harry wells #cisco ramon #cicada #stars-n-spacee #always in sync #enginerr #arrogant #fighting #blood #my writing

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snailfloss · 6 years

Text

Mar 25 Day 1 – Firsts • Kitchen disasters @taakitzweek

First chapter for Taakitz week

Five unforgettable scenes from Kravitz's life with his love. Slightly AU: No Starblaster, still Reaper, still Wizards. Written for Taakitz week 2018, updating daily until the 29th.

(fears not)

Kravitz knows this is gonna be a weird one when his first foot touches down on the other side. He’s suspended for a second between the grave-silence of the astral plane, the lull of a billion souls at his back, and a disheveled, lavish parlor with a greasy sheen of necromantic energy slopped over it.

The rift hardens around him with a twang echoed by a ringing bell, goes viscous and sticky. He has to fight to get both feet on the floor before it closes up. A woman shouts and the bell quiets. Kravitz reevaluates from weird to dangerous and manifests his scythe.

“We’re in the kitchen!” someone calls in a high, familiar voice that makes Kravitz freeze.

He picks his way through the debris littering the parlor—dirty dishes, discarded clothes, nests of blankets like people have been sleeping there—and pushes the door open with his scythe.

It’s an abattoir inside. Every surface is covered in oilcloth tarps, but Kravitz can barely see them under the puddled blood. There’s a corpse open on the central table, intestines stretched and spooled on hooks overhead. Another corpse hangs upside-down on a hook over the sink, blood running down into the drain like a waterfall.

There are more corpses wrapped in shrouds and stacked like logs in the corner. This is where the necromantic energy is concentrated; Kravitz can feel eddies of magic like slick ice. Preservation spells. Bottom-tier shit, barely an infraction, but there are just so many. Not one of them raised, though.

He finally turns to the living people in the room. Normally he’d have dealt with them first, but, well. He doesn’t recognize the third—human, middle-aged, pudgy—but he’s not surprised by the bitten-off grins and glinting eyes of the two elves. Taako’s on a stool as far from the corpses as he can get it, booted feet crusted in blood and hooked up over the rungs. Lup’s at the table with the human, scalpel in her hand. She waves.

“What,” he says flatly. The twins snicker. They and their friend are in rubber ponchos and gloves pulled up past their elbows. The human avoids his gaze. The taint of necromancy is heavy on his skin, even worse than the parlor. But the few hooks it has in his soul are shallow. He sweats out his fears, hands trembling with both anxiety and fatigue. Right in front of Kravitz he starts prying the corpse’s liver free.

“That’s some sick shit,” Kravitz says. “What the fuck is wrong with the three of you?” Lup keels over and laughs helplessly into the corpse’s open chest. She’s punch-drunk with exhaustion, her hair a frizzy halo matted with sweat and grease. Neither she nor Taako wear the passage of the years on their skin. They won’t for many decades more. Kravitz isn’t used to people who know him. When even was the last time he talked to a mortal who wasn’t afraid?

Taako hops up from his stool. He shucks off his gloves before gliding over to take Kravitz’s arm. Kravitz lets his scythe vanish. “Let’s have this conversation somewhere not-gross, hun.”

Kravitz lets Taako lead him out to the parlor. Taako throws himself down in the blankets on the sofa, pats the cushion beside him, and kicks a cascade of dirty dishes off the coffee table to put his feet up. Kravitz raises an eyebrow at him.

Taako runs waves of prestidigitation up his arms and across his face. The tickle makes him sneeze as the grime vanishes from his skin in increments. “C’mon Krav, we ain’t got all day. Haven’t you heard there’s a plague on?”

Kravitz relents and sits down stiffly at Taako’s side. Taako grins and presses against him from knee to shoulder. He barely smells like blood, thank the gods.

Taako looks up at him through his lashes. He’s got days-old eyeshadow on, smeared a deep bruise purple and mirroring the dark bags under his eyes. He’s beautiful. He catches Kravitz’s eye and grins. “You can put your skin on. The vector’s bodily fluids, you’re fine so long as you don’t lick a corpse.”

The crawl of flesh over his bones unnerves Kravitz. He doesn’t do this often. The room dims and softens through the filter of physical eyes. Everything around him, though—the heat rolling off Taako’s body, the velvety crinkle of the cushions beneath them—that intensifies. Kravitz finds that Taako actually smells quite a bit like blood, and like stale sweat and fatigue and greasy food besides.

He also smells like himself. Kravitz has to turn a deep inhale into a discreet cough. “I hadn’t planned on getting as up-close and personal with corpses as you all have been. If this is what medical science is like then I would’ve been happier not knowing.”

“You’re telling me with a straight face that you, the Grim-fuckin’-Reaper, don’t slay corpses on the reg?”

“Zombies aren’t that juicy, Taako.”

Taako cracks up and fists a hand in Kravitz’s vest. Every single one of his knuckles burns like a brand, fizzles like electricity. It is suddenly very, very warm in the parlor.

It’s high summer. Kravitz knew this. He’s been busy in the area for weeks now. Necromantic activity surges after any disaster. Grief, despair, instability—a boiling cauldron of need and regret. He never used to understand why mortals would feel driven by all that to defy the peace of death. Looking at Taako, though—at the banked fear in his eyes, his tongue slipping out to wet cracked lips—he thinks he gets it. His face is mirrored in his sister’s, and they spent their youths clawing for every breath they drew.

They’re different. They’ve grown into their skin. Taako’s fingers aren’t wire-thin anymore, and his eyes are bright even through the fug of exhaustion. His hair’s thick and healthy underneath the grease, pulled up around his head in a burnished crown of braids. Taako’s watching Kravitz’s mouth, so he swallows hard and speaks.

“Tell me what you’ve found out about the plague. Assuming that is what you’re doing—you’re not just chopping corpses up for fun, right?”

Taako giggles. The tips of his ears flick, and he launches into an explanation about viruses and liver failure that uses words like cirrhosis and cholestasis and atresia. He says four times that it’s his sister’s project, her and her crush, and that he wouldn’t dissect a corpse for an entire boatload of gold. But he’s clearly been paying attention. And Kravitz knows Taako would do a lot worse for a lot less.

The twins are so much stronger now. Kravitz thinks it must be hope that has them staying in a dying city, doing their best to help. He’d thought they might be brilliant. Taako talks with his hands and laughs brightly—this plague is one of many tragedies to him, and he’s learned something like happiness despite it. Kravitz isn’t sure how much of that’s because the twins have a solid roof over their heads and the support of the human in the kitchen. He remembers Taako’s intensity; this vibrancy is a new look for him, and it’s breathtaking.

“I just killed a necromancer,” Kravitz says, when Taako’s story peters out. Taako’s moved his hand down to Kravitz’s thigh. That’s all Kravitz has been thinking about for minutes—he hasn’t learned a damn thing about medicine.

“We the bottom of your list, bubbeleh?”

“The very bottom. What’s Hallwinter’s deal, though?”

“Hallwinter? Gods, the man has us calling him Bluejeans,” Taako wheezes. No response from the kitchen. They can’t hear Lup and Barry—not their conversation, not the squelch of offal between their fingers. “He’s some university professor-type givin’ Lup magic lessons. And now anatomy, I guess. But not in the sexy way. She loved his thesis. He’s gone on her, it’s adorable.”

“He’s walking a dangerous line, Taako,” Kravitz says. He’s doing everything he can to ignore the magic permeating Barry’s house. He wants to focus on the rise and fall of Taako’s chest, on the curve of his smile. “I know of zero cases of ‘academic’ necromancy that didn’t end in tragedy.”

“Well of course you don’t,” Taako says, rolling his eyes. “Tragedy’s your whole schtick. Tell me this isn’t the longest you’ve ever just hung out.”

It’s not. It’s the second longest in several centuries, and Taako was there for the first as well. Kravitz doesn’t say that. The scratch of Taako’s chipped nails over the fabric of his suit has become unpleasant, so he captures Taako’s hand in his and squeezes it.

“Whoof, that’s a clammy one!” Taako says in a tone of pure delight. “Oh my gods you’re cold. Hold still.”

Taako steals Kravitz’s hand and presses it to his brow. His face is unbelievably hot. A pang of fear squeezes something in Kravitz’s chest. “You’re not running a fever, are you?”

“No-pe” Taako says, popping the p. “That was our first success—we’ve got a diagnostic spell now. Me ‘n Lup ‘n Barold are all squeaky-clean. You’re gonna be out of work in short order.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kravitz says. He trails fingertips down Taako’s cheek. Taako gives him a wolfish look and presses his face into Kravitz’s.

“Hey,” he says, breath puffing against Kravitz’s lips.

Kravitz pauses. Watches the light filter through Taako’s hair. “…Hey?”

Taako shifts back and levels a look at him. “Kravitz. I am flirting with you. Take a fuckin’ hint.”

The laugh bubbling in Kravitz’s throat catches him by surprise. He doesn’t know how Taako manages to do that to him. He loves it. He pulls Taako down on top of him and they both giggle helplessly, chests heaving against each other. Even after he catches his breath there’s still something moving under his ribs, steady and insistent.

“Can I kiss you?” Taako sing-songs against his neck. Kravitz has been asked this by him exactly once before, and he’d said no. He’d wondered afterwards for so, so long.

“Yes,” he says this time.

He doesn’t get to lecture Lup and Barry on necromancy. They have more than enough time to clean up and dispel everything. Kravitz spends the evening drinking in the feel of Taako’s lips against his, the scent of his skin and hair. It’s a first for him, and, like all firsts with Taako, he’s left yearning for more.

on ao3 here

#taakitz #taakitzweek #The Adventure Zone #my writing #stuff i made

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authorellenmint · 6 years

Text

The Calling

A short story I wrote about Cullen coming to terms with Lana having to take the Calling. After Miracle it became moot so I never published it anywhere. Trust me, I warned you.

Starts after the Keep Reading click. @voidtakeyou @zimafreak @elfleed

The tendrils pulsing fear retreated from his mind as he woke, the nightmare barely remembered but the panic it created clung like crystals of frozen dew to his skin. Cullen's trembling hands dug into his eyes trying to scrub free every heart constricting moment when he felt the lack of her sleeping beside him. Not again. He sat up, prepared to slip on a pair of breeches and find her when a gentle cough echoed from the window.

Clouds blanketed away the starry light rendering the night almost impenetrable, but he didn't need to see to know it was her gazing across their hold clutching tight to her chest. "Cullen," Lana whispered. The wheeze that began a month ago echoed in her throat, sliding across her vocal cords like sandpaper. She winced whenever she spoke, but he didn't care.

Shuffling off their bed, he stepped across the cold flagstones, prepared to lovingly remind her that it was night and rest was good for her. He paused in front of her, his wife, his first love, and moved to hold her hands, but she kept them curled around her, her eyes gazing past him. Instead, Cullen massaged her crossed elbows, digging the thin robe into her skin. Maker, it was deepest winter outside. She had to be freezing in this.

A whimper, barely above the lone song of a cricket lost in the alleyways of a city, snapped his eyes to hers. Lana snapped her teeth a few times, then her mile long stare winnowed into his. By the bare flame from the hallway sconces, streaks of tears dripped down her cheeks. Screwing up her eyes tight, she sighed, "It's time."

"You're tired," he said, not listening to her. His fingers dug tighter into her elbows. "Come to bed, you'll see that in the morning..."

Lana reached out to touch his cheek, her hand without fingernails as one by one they popped off. "I've been ignoring it for too long."

"No," he threw up a false smile, shaking his head at her insistence. "No, you're, you're fine. It's fine. I..."

"I don't eat, I barely sleep. I've lost most of my hair and..."

"I don't care!" he shouted throwing his arms around her and pulling her tight to him. She didn't fight it, but didn't return it either, her arms crossed, her fingers holding tight to herself. "I love you, I...no matter what."

Her entire body shuddered and she burrowed her head into him, the tears dripping across his naked chest. "I know you do. I know you..." Like snuffing out a candle, the trembling in Lana stopped. She rose away from him, her movements sure, her tone crisp, as if she turned her soul to stone. "I know you will always love me, even when I'm gone."

"N-n-no," he twisted his head, not letting her words reach him, "no, no, you're-you're tired and not thinking clearly and I...I can. I'll. I will--" Inside his gut he felt it stir awake, the long dormant dragon rose from its slumber, scattering anger in its wake. Throwing his hands off her, Cullen stepped back and glared at her, his wife. The woman he swore to love until the end of his days. The woman he would have loved anyway. "You, you've given up, just like that. Refused to-to even try anymore!"

Lana didn't answer him, but her mouth dropped open. Cursing with every blaspheme he knew, Cullen shouted in her face, "How can you do this to me?!" She struggled to maintain her stone heart but for a moment it broke, crumpling her face as more tears broke. But he didn't care, his own heart stewing in a cauldron of rage. Stomping away, he snatched up the first pair of trousers he found and jammed them on.

Unbolting the latch to their door, he hissed at the woman frozen by the window, "If you cared one whit for me, for this marriage, you'd abandon this fear of the wardens, you'd fight harder!" Through the red haze digging across his vision, he threw open the door, stomped out into the cold air, then slammed it shut behind him. A snarl trailed the once Commander of the Inquisition as he smashed every footstep away from her, from her ineptitude, her inability to...to try. To even give a single thought for-for him, for what all she'd leave behind. This abbey hummed because of her, because she put in just as much time, and blood, and...and tears. A breeze bit into his cheek and absently Cullen reached up to touch it only to draw back fingers stained with tears.

No.

No, not now. It can't be now. Not when there was, was so much yet to do. The stables were in a state-- he, barely having any time to tend to them and her...and her being too weak to last more than a few hours on her feet.

"Maker, no," he gasped, sliding to his knees. One hand gripped onto the stone walls of the abbey while the winter winds washed his body dragging away every drop of fiery rage. Only an abyssal bereavement remained. Lana, she'd been...for weeks now. No, it was months. Two months when the first clump of hair was left behind on her pillow. She'd tried to hide the bald spot from him, as if afraid he'd stop loving her for it. As if he could ever stop thinking she was the most beautiful woman in thedas.

How...? Cullen dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, the tears cascading now. Nothing would stop them. He'd done it once before, lived two years in this world without her. Rose every morning, ate his meal, did his work, and felt his soul whither away, his heart turn to ash. How could he return to that? How could he go on without her?

Andraste's grace, he was being a selfish child. She was facing, Maker he didn't even know the terrifying abyss before her and all he did was stomp away carrying on as if-if it was all some slight to him. To hurt him. Yelling at her, blaming her for... A ball of knives erupted inside Cullen's stomach, his shame almost palpable as he moaned through the night air. She needed him to be strong and he wasn't. Needed him to hold her, to make it easier, to-to prop her up when she was at her most vulnerable. And what did he do instead? Ran. Ran away, refused to do what he vowed to, because-because he can't do it.

"Maker," Cullen brought his hands together in prayer, the fingers digging in so tight his knuckles whitened. Pressing them against his lips, he felt every muscle in his body tremble, "how...how am I going to say goodbye?"

He tried to clean up most of his sorrow before cracking open their room's door and peeking inside. A candle burned at their desk where Lana sat hunched over, a quill jabbed against parchment not as if she was writing anything but trying to draw out her pain. At the hinges squeaking, her arm froze and she looked up but not towards him.

"Lana," he whimpered, his feet shuffling across the stones, all the strength in his body drained away. "I..." Cullen struggled to drop a hand across her shoulder. She reached up with ink-stained fingers to caress it. "I'm so sorry," blubbered out of him.

"I know," she said, her voice certain and distant. Her fingers continued to roll across his as they fell into silence. Cullen tried to unearth the commander buried under his skin, the man who knew duty before personal pain, who could cut off all emotion and focus on the practical. But all attempts crumbled through his fingers like grains of sand.

Sobbing, his head lolled down, "I don't want to lose you."

She sucked in a breath, steadying herself before answering, "I know." With laborious movements, Lana rose out of her seat and she stood before him. He expected her to yell at him for being so childish, for failing her. Instead, she slipped her hands around his waist, pulling herself tight to him. With her head laying against his chest, she whispered, "I don't want to lose you either."

"Oh, Maker," he cried, all new tears crashing free. The chill of hers streaked across his chest, furrows digging into his skin and across his heart. Uncertain what to do, Cullen wrapped his hands around her and began to sway with his wife, as if they were dancing once again in that crystal garden back at the Winter Palace. "Ten years isn't enough time," he whined to the Maker, to Andraste, to anyone listening. It wasn't fair. None of it was.

Lifting her head off his chest, Lana's red-rimmed eyes bore into his. "A hundred years isn't enough," she said, then kissed him so tenderly with her soul another round of tears broke from him. "Cullen, I-I love you. I wish that I'd been..."

"Shh," he cupped her cheek, his fingers dancing across her lips. "You did everything you could, you always do." There were some monsters even the hero of Ferelden couldn't slay. "I was, I shouldn't have. I'm so sorry."

Lana clung tighter to him, her hands hanging off his biceps as she dug in the way she did when she drew strength from him. He feared he had none left to give her. "You were upset, please, don't...please don't carry that blame." Her eyes darted up to his, certainty in them as she pleaded, "Please, I-I don't want you to, to blame yourself for...for my failure."

"Maker," he swept both her cheeks up in his hands, holding her tight. The night's chill wafted off her skin, circles below her eyes drawn deeper than he could remember. He never remarked upon the rising black marks upon her body, couldn't-didn't want to face to what they meant. What she warned him of. What had to happen. "Does it hurt?" he whispered, his thumbs wiping across her cheeks as if polishing them.

Her smile bloomed as she looked up at him, and his heart dropped further into his stomach trying to swaddle itself away from the oncoming storm. "No," Lana twisted her head below his hands, "no it doesn't hurt. I, I only have to deal with the song, all the time now. It never silences, except..."

"Except?" he clung to the barest of hopes now even knowing none remained.

Lana cupped his chin as she had a hundred times before, a thousand times, and not enough. Never enough. Her thumb pressed against his lips and she smiled through the tears, "When you kiss me."

Dipping his knees as if he was twenty-six all over again and risking that first kiss with the woman in his arms, Cullen's lips pressed against hers. Despite the tears streaking down their faces, the snot burbling in both noses, she cupped her lips around his and dove in. Fingers dug across his curls, guiding him as she always did, holding him, protecting him, loving him. And now...

As Lana slid down on her exhausted feet, he wrapped his arms around her back, pinning her gaunt body to his. "Then I will never stop kissing you."

A shudder broke from her lips down the entirety of her spine and Lana gasped for air. She never did that. When she cried she was always silent, careful to keep quiet while the tears fell. Now she clawed for air, her deep breaths punctuated by a wail as she clung to him and he in turn to her. What was he going to do without her? Maker, how could You be so cruel? "I..." Lana struggled for a breath, her words jagged, "I wish it-it would work."

Placing her down, Cullen gazed into her eyes. Those eyes he'd traveled across thedas for and would again in a heartbeat. Tipping his forehead to hers, he sighed, "I know. Maker, I know." They stood like that, foreheads pressed together, Cullen bent over so she didn't need to reach, for what he wished could be forever. Let time stop, thedas fall away, and this moment last forever. Please.

"Lana," he whispered to the bitter air, finding his strength where he always left it; with her. "What, what do you need?"

She started, sliding away from him. Unable to lift his head, Cullen sighed as her fingers brushed against his scruff. "I will write to Alistair. We've been talking about this for some time. Planning, as much as he does plan."

Cullen snapped up, his lip trembling, "Then, you won't have to go it alone?"

"I have you, and the other people who love me," she slid up on her toes and kissed him sweetly, "I'm never alone."

#dragon age #cullen rutherford #cullen x amell #calling #loss #pain #secretstory #short #fic #fanfic

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terra-112 · 6 years

Text

Daughter of Winter, Chapter One

[romance] [fantasy]

Summary:

After the death of her grandfather, Allyn travels into Prythian to fulfill her dream of becoming an explorer like her childhood hero, Alexander the Adventurous. She quickly learns that she has unknowingly stumbled into a world of politics, violence, and customs, with her at the center. (AU fanfiction. No characters from the ACOTAR books in it and no spoilers.)

"Ooh, Lilly look at the pretty flowers!" I said as I pointed to a grouping of flowers that crept along the roots of a great tree. Lilly and I had been lured deep into the forest with the promise of meeting a fae. Dain was the one who'd come up with the idea. Like the other two boys he was much taller than I was, but unlike them he wasn't a complete fool. He had auburn hair, accusing colorless eyes, and a constant, angry expression. By the way he scowled you would have thought the whole world had it out for him. The other two boys were the brothers, Brom and Bryce. They weren't twins but by all intensive purposes they was. They looked almost identical to each other, black hair, dull brown eyes, and vapid expressions. They were perfect for working the fields and nothing else.

Compared to them I was like a small dove, innocent and helpless. I was much shorter and slimmer than they were. Not only was I a few years younger, but I would mature slower, a result of my fae blood. My snow white hair and brilliant blue eyes were a stark contrast to their more mundane colors. A gift from my fae father. Unlike them I had a small, unblemished face from being spared from work. The most peculiar difference between us were my ears. Mine were slightly pointed like a fae's.

Lilly was like me. She had coffee brown eyes and hair. A handful of freckles were dusted across her cute face. She was only slightly older than me, but she lacked the stubbornness and confidence that I had. If I was a dove, then she was a mouse. She couldn't hurt a fly, or so I thought.

Dain made some kind of odd hand motion and suddenly Lilly and I were surrounded by the boys.

"Is it true that all half-fae are witches? My mother tells me that they all are, that they are no different than the ones who killed us all. She says that they slaughtered us like pigs," said Dain. He approached me slowly, his hands balled into fists. I backed up until my foot hit the trunk of a tree. The other two boys closed in on either side of us.

"I-I don't know. My grandfather told me that fae aren't all bad," I said. That was a minor understatement. My grandfather spent much of his time with me telling stories about the fantastic fae on the other side of the boundary. I would then repeat them to Lilly whenever I had the chance. "Where's the pixie?" They cackled fiercely.

"There isn't any. If I had caught one, I'd have killed it," Brom said. He emphasized his words by making a violent breaking motion with his hands. Lilly squeaked and started to cry.

"Hey! You made Lilly cry," I said. The two brothers cackled again.

"We'll make y-" one started.

"Shut it you two," Dain snapped. He squat down and put his face closer to mine. I could smell his disgusting, rancid breath.

"As far as I'm concerned, the only pixie here is you. Pixies are supposed to do magic, aren't they?" he asked. I shrugged.

"Yeah," I replied. In the stories they could, but I'd never been able to. Dain lashed out at me, grabbing my neck and slamming me against a tree. I coughed and gasped.

"C'mon witch, cast a spell for me," he snarled. I shook my head and blinked tears from my eyes.

"I don't know how." He scowled at me, his teeth bared and his eyes enraged.

"Pathetic bitch." At this point Lilly had started bawling. Her panic cries were ear piercing and too much for Dain to handle. "Shut it!" He let go of me and haphazardly swung his fist at Lilly. His form was horrible, but he still had enough power to throw her to the ground. I cried out for her.

"Lilly!" I prepared my fists just as grandfather had taught me. I wasn't going down without a fight. I lunged at Dain but was stopped mid air by Brom. He snatched at the back of my dress and held me at arms length. Bryce approached me, his hands balled into tight fists.

Lilly was slowly trying to get to a standing position from the ground. Dain wasn't about to let her though, as he clamped down on her arm and forced her back to the ground.

Bryce struck me once in the face. Stars showered down in front of me, I tasted blood.

"No," I whispered. I reached deep inside myself, desperately calling on some kind of magic to save myself. I should be able to do something, anything.

I couldn't.

I took a second punch from Bryce. A few black spots drifted into my vision. This was it. This was the end.

Then Dain screamed. He tore his arm away from Lilly and backed away. His hand was now the color of raw venison. His skin was flaking off to the ground one layer at a time, the muscles and veins beneath it being warped in gut wrenching ways. Though the injury was great, it did not bleed.

Lilly slowly stood. Her skin glowed faintly. Her face bore no injuries despite the strikes that she took from Dain. She looked straight at Dain.

"Go away," she whispered. Brom let go of me and started to retreat along with his brother. Dain vomited before running away, screaming curses upon both of our families. Brom and Bryce were not far behind.

I took one last look at Lilly before fleeing the scene.

I never saw her again.

"Allyn! What happened to you?" My grandfather cried. My face had swollen. I could barely see out of my right eye. He picked me up in his warm arms and took me into the cabin. "It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay," he whispered in my ear.

I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. He looked solemnly at me, his mahogany eyes brimming with worry.

"Did you play with them again?" I nodded dumbly. "They are mean boys," he told me. "They hate you not for who you are, but what you are. Do not play with them ever again." He quickly mixed up a mug of hot chocolate, my favorite drink. Before giving it to me he retrieved a small bottle from beneath a floorboard. He shook out the last few drops of a black liquid from the bottle into the mug. He placed it in my hands and gently kissed me on my forehead.

"Tell me a story," I asked, taking a sip of the drink. "Please." A tear swelled into the corner of his eye. He blinked it away.

"Which one do you want me to tell?"

"Tell me the one where the bat fae saved him."

"Well..." he said. He sat down on a stool and leaned in close to me. "Alexander the Adventurous was at his lowest point. Captured and held prisoner on the misty island, he did not see any way of escape. The evil fae there tortured him without end, but he did not give up hope. Why?"

"Because Alexander the Adventurous never gives up. He picks himself up off his feet and tries again, no matter what!" We said in unison.

I was beginning to feel better already.

Each of my limbs felt like lead. I could not move.

My mouth did not function, I could not cry for help.

Around me flames licked at the sides of my bed. They devoured the walls and blackened the ceiling. A thick blanket of smoke gathered at the top of the cabin. It inched closer and closer and closer, threatening to smother me. The roar of the flames did not drown out the screams of my family as they were burned alive.

I stared death in the face and I was not ready. I was barely seven years old. I had lived such a short time, seen so little, and met so few. I tried to move, but I could not. I had lost control of my own body.

The curtain of smoke neared. I was going to choke on the deadly blackness.

CRACK

Behind the smoke the roof had begun to sag, the flames weakening the wood. Now it had passed its breaking point and a large strut fell towards me.

I leapt up from where I lay on the bed and screamed. My heart beat so fast I was sure it was going to burst. I sprinted into my grandfather's room and buried myself in his arms. He was already awake and ready to hold me tight in his warm embrace.

He waited until I had calmed before speaking. "Another nightmare?" he softly asked. I nodded and didn't unbury my head from his chest. He sighed and patted me on the back. "Fire?" I nodded again.

This was not the first nor the last time that I would have this nightmare. I would relive the night that my family died hundreds of times. Every time it would be the exact same.

He held me until sleep called me again. He carried me back to my bed. I woke up when he laid me down. He started to walk away.

"Wait," I said. I started to work up my courage.

"Yes?" I inhaled slowly and grappled with both my fear and anticipation. I wanted to know, but I also did not.

"Was...was my father like Alexander?" I asked. He paused and knit his brow as he thought.

"What do you mean?"

"Was he a mean fae? The others say that all fae are mean, that they wouldn't hesitate to tear us apart and drink our blood." It was supposed to be common knowledge that all fae viewed us as nothing but ants to be crushed for their own entertainment. Bloodfall, the day when a surge of enraged fae murdered hundreds for unknown reasons, cemented this thought in the minds of every human in the mortal lands, save a few. We chose to believe that not all fae were terrible.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. After a moment of deliberation he said, "No, he was not. Goodnight Allyn." I let out a long held sigh of relief.

"'Night."

"I have something for you," grandfather told me. His voice was stern. There was none of his normal warmth in it. He sat rigidly at the table as though he was going to have a formal meeting with the baron. I took a seat at the table across from him, making sure to keep my back straight and elbows off the table.

"This is a knife I had in my youth," It was a small dagger, wholly unremarkable except for its blue hue. The edge was perfect, not even a trace of rust or damage. A few words were stamped in to the pommel in a strange fae language. "It has never failed me." He placed the blade into the palm of my hand. Its weight was oddly comforting. "I do not want you to use it for anything other than to defend yourself. Do you promise that?" I nodded.

"Thank you grandfather." I meant it. Though grandfather had been training me to fight since as long as I could remember, this was only the second weapon he'd given me. The first was a bow on my tenth birthday.

"Do not thank me. It is something I would prefer to not give you, but I no longer have a choice. Keep it on you at all times. Use it only when you have no other choice."

The next part will be uploaded to my blog whenever I get around to it. You could also read all of the currently uploaded parts and follow the story on fanfiction.net at here.

Thanks for reading!

Love,

Terra-112

#ACOTAR #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #a court of frost and starlight #ACOMAF #ACOWAR #ACOFAS #Spring Court #Autumn Court #Fanfiction

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